


you make me live whenever this world is cruel to me

by iwillbeyourgoal



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Peter Parker, Epic Friendship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pansexual Wade Wilson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-29 02:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillbeyourgoal/pseuds/iwillbeyourgoal
Summary: somehow, some way, wade wilson has become the best friend peter parker's ever had. peter would be worried about this if it weren't so fucking fun.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from queen's "you're my best friend"

Peter Parker found it difficult to make friends even before his social calendar was filled with “save New York” for the foreseeable future.

He’d, you know, tried. He would compliment someone on their Strokes shirt but flounder when they thanked him. Once he made eye contact with someone he knew from school at a mall and turned on his heels and sprinted twenty feet away into a Lego store – which was fortuitous, actually, because he wanted the new Star Wars set to work on with Ned.

That was nine years ago, and while he would say that Spider-Man was more of an inconvenience than he’d anticipated, he did appreciate the fact that he was so busy that he didn’t have to try to make friends, because he’d probably end up blowing them off constantly anyway. The Avengers and Aunt May were all Peter needed, really.

But.

But sometimes, on particularly slow nights when he would patrol the city from building to building, he’d get the nagging sense of overwhelming loneliness. He’d just like someone to talk to, frankly, about his life without getting a lecture (like from Tony) or worrying about terrifying them (like Aunt May.)

This train of thought was following him one night while he was stalking around the top of the Flatiron Building, his heightened senses on the lookout for any signs of trouble but finding nothing. Sighing, he sat down on the building’s edge, swinging his legs back and forth as he watched college students sitting in groups in Madison Square Park, drinking and smoking and playing card games and throwing Frisbees.

He’d had to drop out of Empire State University. His two modes in college were “fighting evil, ergo, missing class” or “in class, ergo, feeling guilty about not fighting evil.” The anxiety this caused would keep him up for days at a time, and with May’s urging, he decided to give school a break – just for a little bit while he held down a position at Stark Industries.

That was three years ago, and it didn’t seem like he would be coming back any time soon, he thought wistfully as he watched the students below.

“Looks like fun,” he muttered, resting his chin on his hand.

“Betcha it’s not,” a voice from behind him said.

Peter scrambled to his feet, ready to web the intruder, but growled and relaxed somewhat when he saw who it was.

“Deadpool,” he greeted the man reluctantly.

“Spidey!” The mercenary grinned, his mask fabric stretching to accommodate it, as he plopped down onto the ledge. Peter winced as he lowered himself to sit again, wondering how Deadpool’s tailbone was able to take such abuse. “How nice to find you on this building that is neither flat nor iron.”

“Actually, the architects—”

“Iiiiiiii do not care,” the man said cheerfully.

He’d only had a few interactions with Deadpool, and he wouldn’t say they were incredibly pleasant, but he never really understood the vitriol other heroes harbored for him. Sure, he could be annoying, and he definitely talked too much, but Peter didn’t _really_ mind. Usually.

The man looked down at the students in the park and shook his head. “Why would you want to be like them, anyway? They’re just gonna graduate and go into finance or law or whatever and have boring, stable sex with their boring, stable spouses in their boring, stable brownstones.”

Peter stared at him. “That sounds great,” he said flatly.

Deadpool snorted, shaking his head. “You’re made for more than that, baby boy. You’re a fuckin’ hero. You change lives.”

There was a hint of hardness, of bitterness in the mercenary’s words, but Peter couldn’t spare the mental energy to psychoanalyze a man who was, by all accounts, incredibly mentally ill.

“I’d give anything to be normal,” Peter said, and he wasn’t sure why this was quickly turning into Therapy Time with A Paid Killer, but he decided to push through the discomfort. “I didn’t choose this.”

“No one in their right mind does,” Deadpool shrugged. “Ya do the best with what you have. You have bitchin’ web powers and the tightest ass on _both_ sides of the East River. I got no less than three voices at all times firing off in my head and a lifetime of military training and back-alley government torture. That’s just how we were drawn, Spidey.”

At this, Peter turned to really take in the man beside him. Even in the dull light coming off the streetlamps below, he could see that the his red and black suit was scuffed and covered in scratches and cuts of varying sizes. He wondered if Deadpool really believed what he was saying, if being a hero with countless responsibilities and lives on your shoulders was better than living a quiet, normal life, or if that was what he told himself because if he believed anything else he might slip further into madness.

“How’d you get your powers?” he blurted out, and he was grateful for the mask because if he hadn’t been wearing it Deadpool would have seen him immediately screw his eyes shut and blush – why did he ask that?

If the question bothered the man, however, he didn’t show it. “Government lab-rat experiment stuff,” he supplied. “Your everyday tragic backstory.”

Peter was certain he wasn’t being totally truthful, but left it at that. This was turning out to be the longest conversation the two of them had ever had, and the longest conversation Peter had had with someone who wasn’t his relative or coworker in… possibly months?

God, he needed a life.

“’Sides, what’s college good for, anyway?” Deadpool picked up the topic they had dropped a few minutes earlier, and Peter felt sheepish for making him uncomfortable. “Sexual experimentation? Protesting? Terrible parking? Baby boy, you can get all that in the real world _and then some_.”

Peter laughed, and Deadpool grinned, running a hand over his masked head (through where Peter would assume his hair was – did he _have_ hair?)

“He’s laughing! At something I said… Yes, I can _too_!” Deadpool muttered, and Peter was confused for a moment before remembering – duh, voices in his head. He wondered what they were saying, but decided not to ask. One uncomfortably personal question was enough for the night.

At that moment an ungodly noise came from the general direction of Peter’s stomach, and he remembered that he’d skipped dinner in favor of patrolling that night. Normally he’d just grab some street meat and take it home if there wasn’t any action going on, but he didn’t see any halal anywhere near here, and… he kind of wanted to prolong his time with Deadpool, as much as he would never admit it.

“Ohhhh, Webs is hungry!” Deadpool exclaimed, rubbing his gloved hands together conspiratorially. “What’s your poison? I, personally, am obsessed with Mexican, but I’ll eat basically anything you put in front of me, which can be a bit of a problem, especially in my younger days when I hadn’t built up my arsenic tolerance – but, y’know, I’m sure that won’t be an issue for you. So, Ethiopian? Italian? God, I love pizza. Is there a more perfect food item?”

Peter was just staring at the man. “Wait. Food?”

Deadpool’s diatribe stopped and he blinked – or, well, it seemed like he did. Masks make these things difficult.

“Do – do you not wanna get food?” he asked, deflating a bit. “Shit, I’m sorry, I just assumed. Stupid Deadpool.”

“No, no, that’s not it,” Peter said, shaking his head rapidly. “I just – I hadn’t considered it. Yeah, let’s get food. For sure.”

The mercenary’s good mood returned, and he bounced up and down slightly. “So what’re you feeling?”

Peter couldn’t keep a small smile off his face at the breakneck speed with which Deadpool switched back to a cheerful demeanor. It was slightly worrisome, and probably indicative of some pretty major behavioral disorders, but it was also sort of cute.

“You said Mexican’s your favorite?”

Deadpool nodded enthusiastically.

“Let’s get some, then. I think there’s a pretty good place near h—”

“The one on 18th and 5th?”

Peter blinked. “Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”

“I’ve been to every Mexican place in the city,” the man explained, shrugging like this was a thing that people do. “That one’s a little bougie, but still really good. Let’s go.”

He stood up and surveyed the ground below before sticking one leg out over the edge, and Peter realized with horror that he was planning to _fall off the building._

“Nonononono!” Peter said, leaping to his feet to grab him before he could go through with the plan.

“What?” Deadpool asked innocently.

“You’re not just gonna – fuckin’ fall to the ground,” Peter said, grunting as he pulled the mercenary back onto the roof.

“Why not? I’ll heal.”

“You’ll heal from a _twenty-two story drop_?”

“Aw, that’s adorable,” the mercenary said sardonically. “I’ve had worse, Spidey. Think bullets to the head. Dissolved in acid. Being ripped in half.”

This stunned Peter into silence for a moment, and Deadpool continued, “And some of those I didn’t even do to myself!”

Deadpool had tried to kill himself? Shaking his head in a daze, Peter made a note to bring that disturbing thought up at a later date. “Well, I mean – at least let me carry you and we can web there. I bet you’re not heavy at all.”

“How _dare_ you,” he replied, words laced with faux-offense and humor. “I am dense as a brick shithouse. I carry the weight of Canada’s sins, _including_ the entire godless city of Edmonton. No way your stick-figure-lookin’ ass self could carry me.”

Even though it was clearly a joke, Peter’s need to prove himself flared in his chest, and he straightened his posture. “Climb on and we’ll see.”

The white eyes in Deadpool’s mask widened (how did he get them to do that? Peter had to ask him sometime) and before Peter could blink, he felt a great weight upon his back. Deadpool was clinging to him as if he were a baby animal, his head nestled into the crook of Peter’s right shoulder.

“Please disregard the boner,” he said seriously. “I’d say it’s one-third your ass, two-thirds excitement for Mexican.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but an annoying heat crept onto his face that he’d really rather not think about. “Hold on,” he said as he leapt off of the building and shot a web at an opposite building after falling for a few moments. Through the wind rushing in his ears, he could hear Deadpool’s whoops of excitement, and he grinned. This was his favorite thing to do in the entire world, and he was always glad to share it with someone.

The restaurant wasn’t too far from where they had been, so the trip only took a minute or so, but Peter figured it was exhilarating enough for a first time.

“Hot diggity shit!” Deadpool exclaimed, jumping up and down as they landed in front of the restaurant. “That was fuckin’ incredible! Do you feel like this _every time_?”

“It’s my favorite feeling,” Peter said, smiling. “Nothing compares.”

The man was silent for a moment before smiling and turning to head into the restaurant. “And you’d give that up for fuckin’ college?”

Peter didn’t answer as he trailed behind, slightly dumbstruck at the mercenary’s prescience.

“I don’t eat in restaurants. You good with to-go?” Deadpool asked Peter as they approached a waitress. Peter nodded, deciding not to pursue the questions this arose in him. “Cool.”

God bless their waitress because she gave no more than a cursory wide-eyed glance at the two of them as the mercenary dug through his various pouches to look for money.

Deadpool, despite Peter’s protests, ordered one of every appetizer and entrée on the menu.

“C’mon, Webs, you’re starving, and I’m buying,” the older man shrugged. “You’re a growing boy. Don’t tell me you couldn’t eat this entire restaurant out of house and home and still have room for dessert.”

It was true, he had to admit: Ever since he gained his powers, he really couldn’t eat enough to keep up with his metabolism. When he lived with Aunt May, he usually had to curb his appetite to give her the chance to eat, well, anything at all.

“I’m the same way,” Deadpool continued, leaning against the wall so that he was out of the bright light. “I can eat anyone under the table.”

“That’s healing factors for you, I guess.”

It took about forty more minutes for their food to come, which was more than enough time for the two supers to get into a somewhat heated argument on the best 80’s sitcoms (besides _Golden Girls_ , because Deadpool said it wasn’t fair to measure other shows against perfection).

A waiter, arms full with to-go bags, approached them just as Peter was extolling the virtues of _The Wonder Years_ over _Family Matters_. Deadpool, glaring at him all the while, pulled out a large stack of cash from one of his pouches and handed it to the man.

“Here ya go. Better scurry back to the kitchen, this spider’s about one wrong opinion away from getting his ass handed to him.”

The man nodded silently as the two turned and headed out of the restaurant, bickering all the way.

They found a roof nearby to eat on. Peter was glad that Deadpool seemed to prefer relative privacy in his day-to-day life too – he liked spending time with Tony and Nat and Thor, but they had… somewhat different viewpoints of what life in the public eye should be like.

“So what’s life with the World’s Mightiest Dillholes like?” Deadpool asked with a mouthful of enchiladas.

Peter frowned. Could Deadpool read minds? Was that one of his powers? He was pretty sure it wasn’t. Like, at least 60 percent sure.

“They’re not dillholes,” he replied dutifully. “They’re nice people. I mean, like, sometimes they treat me like a kid, just because I’m the youngest, but…”

“Youngest?” Deadpool said, his head cocked. “How old are you?”

“I’m 24.”

The mercenary scoffed. “24 and they treat you like a kid? You’re ‘rent a car’ age, minus one. You’ve been fighting war after war for 10 damn years and they don’t treat you like an adult, and I think that’s fucking stink-ass _garbage_.”

Peter wanted to rise to the Avenger’s defense, but in some small way, he agreed with Deadpool. He’d been Spider-Man since he was 15 and had witnessed more death in the following decade than he’d ever care to recall. He was starting to get _worry lines_ , for Christ’s sake, and Steve and Tony still called him “son.”

“Right!” he found himself saying. “And it’s not like I can say anything to them about it, because then they’ll just think I’m being immature or overreacting. It’s a fucking ouroboros. I love them, but it’s just… unfair.”

Deadpool was nodding vigorously. “Heroes in groups are almost _never_ a good idea. They get high and mighty and try and make you something you aren’t. Or put you in mental hospitals against your will, so you have to kill the Fantastic Four.”

 Peter’s brow knit, but Deadpool didn’t continue that line of thought. He turned and nodded at the empty wrappers in Peter’s lap. “You done?”

“Oh, God, yeah,” he groaned. “That was so good, holy shit. Thanks.”

“Ain’t no thang,” the man replied, his mask stretched in what Peter was fairly certain was a grin. “Hey, what day is it?”

“Uh,” Peter started. “Friday?”

“Oh, _excellent_ ,” Deadpool said excitedly. “And, uh, d’you have the time?”

“What are you on about?” Peter said suspiciously, but checked the time in his suit’s display. “It’s 7:13.”

“Perfect! Holy shit, this is perfect.”

“Deadpool, what are you _talking_ about?”

Deadpool stood up and bounced on his heels excitedly. “Wade,” he said.

Peter blinked. “What?”

“My name is Wade Wilson. You can call me Wade, if you want. But more importantly,” the man – Wade – said, turning to Peter. “The Met is still open. Spidey, have you ever read _From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler_?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY PRIDE, Y'ALL! this is going to be probably 5-10 chapters, hopefully updated once a week (or maybe more often? maybe?????? i have no idea.)
> 
> if you're enjoying it so far, leave a comment! it really motivates me to keep writing! love you <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> museum hijinks ahoy!

It took the two of them about twenty minutes to web their way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Wade was so excited to hitch a ride on Peter’s back again that he screamed as they took off, almost resulting in Peter letting them fall to the ground because it shocked him so much.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he growled as they traveled uptown.

“I’m sorry!” Wade said, though he was laughing, which kind of took the wind out of the apology. “It’s just – shit, this is the dopest thing in the world!”

“I know that! You think I don’t know that?” Peter said, focusing on alternating between buildings, factoring in the additional weight. “But I keep – my screams – to – myself.” They’d come to a narrower street and Peter was having to web more often.

“Well, where’s the fun in that? Y’oughta scream more when you do this. Do you keep quiet during sex, too?”

Peter reddened. “We are 120 percent not going there, and if you don’t want to walk you’ll drop it.”

“Alright!” Deadpool said, and even though Peter couldn’t see his face, he knew he had the mother of all shit-eating grins. “Alright, that’s fine. Will bring up Spidey Sex at a later date.”

Peter let them drop a little more rapidly than he normally would, and the sudden shriek from the man on his back was completely worth the drop in his own stomach that had everything to do with the falling and nothing to do with the subject matter.

They reached the Met, and Wade was halfway up the steps when Peter called, “Wait!”

He stopped and turned. Peter, glancing around, waved him back.

“You’re not getting’ cold feet on me, are ya?” Wade asked in a pretty decent impersonation of a 20’s gangster.

“No!” Peter said defiantly. “It’s just – I didn’t bring a change of clothes. And if we’re gonna _Basil E. Frankweiler_ this shit, I think we should be a little less… spandex-y.”

“Speak for yourself, this bad boy’s gen-you-wine leather,” the mercenary muttered, looking down at his suit.

“I’m serious, Deadpool.” Peter crossed his arms. “Is there, like, an H&M around here?”

The man just shrugged, and Peter groaned until he remembered his suit had an Internet connection.

“Hey, Karen?” he asked.

“Uh, it’s Wade, but if that’s your thing–”

“Shut up,” Peter waved Wade’s confusion away. “Karen’s my suit.”

_Yes, Peter?_

“Where’s the nearest H&M?”

_The nearest H &M is on the corner of Lexington Avenue and East 86th Street. Would you like directions?_

“Nah, I can figure it out. Thanks.”

 _My pleasure_.

Deadpool stood there, head cocked in disbelief. “Your suit _talks to you_?”

Peter nodded silently, suddenly feeling quite bashful.

“You are so. Fucking. Cool.”

Smirking slightly, Peter found his posture straightening a bit as he started toward the H&M. “C’mon, the store’s this way.”

It was a five-minute walk to the store, and it would have been remarkably uneventful if a few high school students hadn’t spotted them on the way.

“Holy shit! Deadpool _and_ Spider-Man?” a young boy in the group said, pointing at them as they scrambled to fetch their phones.

“Are you guys, like, teaming up now?” a girl said, grinning as she rose to her feet. “Like partners? That’s so dope!”

“It is! It _is_ dope!” Deadpool said, pulling a reluctant Peter closer to him by the shoulder. “Y’all want some selfies?”

“God, Tony’s never gonna let me hear the end of this,” Peter muttered, but he never liked letting down the kids of his city.

After each teenager had taken various selfies from various angles, Peter and Wade departed from them with amiable waves.

“What nice baby nerds they were,” Wade said pleasantly, and Peter laughed.

“I probably would’ve done the same thing at their age.”

“Well, duh,” Deadpool said as they turned a corner. “You’re a nerd, Spidey. It’s like, who you are.”

Peter couldn’t argue with him there. The two reached H&M a minute or so later, and after a few moments of initial browsing, Peter picked out the most inconspicuous outfit he could – a pair of jeans, a plain black shirt, and some white sneakers.

“Aw, c’mon, Spidey,” Wade said as he eyed Peter’s selections. “That’s so boring. Try… this one.”

As Peter took the shirt Deadpool was holding out and looked at the design, he couldn’t help but laugh. It was a white T-shirt with a picture of Whitney Houston on it, accompanied by classic ‘80s neon squiggles and “WHITNEY!” in spiky letters. It wasn’t exactly his style, but he definitely didn’t hate it.

“Alright, but I _thought_ we were trying to be inconspicuous. I mean, what about yours?” He nodded to the clothes Wade was holding: jeans, a navy hoodie, and black sneakers.

“Trust me, Webs, when I get this suit off you’ll understand,” Wade said, and his tone was suddenly serious. “The less people are drawn to look at my fugly self, the better.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Peter said without thinking.

The older man looked at him for a moment before snorting mirthlessly and turning to head into the dressing room. “You’ll see,” he said simply.

They were in stalls next to each other, and Peter felt odd with nowhere to stuff his suit. It could fold down to the size of a deck of playing cards, thanks Tony, but he still felt… exposed, just carrying it around in his pocket.

As he leaned into the mirror to examine himself, he was struck with realization: This dumbass harebrained plan meant Wade would have to see him without his mask. It meant no more secret identity. And he couldn’t rightfully expect him to go around calling Peter “Spidey” when he wasn’t suited up, could he? How did he not think about this before?

Did he trust Deadpool that much? Did he trust Deadpool at _all_?

Honestly, he wasn’t sure. Their morals obviously didn’t totally align, because – well, because Peter  wasn’t a contract killer. He’d heard about the horrible things that the man had done to his marks.

But Peter had done some of his own research, back when he had first encountered the man, and it seemed that everyone he targeted was… not _asking_ for it, because that was a gross way of thinking about human life, but they were rapists, or murderers, or pedophiles. Peter didn’t like to delve into who “deserved” life or death, partly because he knew it wasn’t his decision and partly because he could get into some pretty dark parts of his psyche if he let himself go down that road.

No one deserved to die, not really. But some people… the world was better without them, he reasoned. Deadpool just helped with the balance.

And the man had done nothing – tonight or during any other of their encounters – to give Peter reason to believe that he was trying to take Spider-Man down or rat him out. He was coming to see that Wade was a lot of things – confident yet self-deprecating, flirty yet (somewhat) respectful of boundaries – but he didn’t seem like he was _evil_. Not like the Avengers painted him, anyhow.

He made up his mind.

“Wade,” he said quietly, leaning toward the barricade that separated their dressing areas.

“Yeah?”

“I, uh… if we’re gonna see each other out of our uniforms, you should, uh, probably know my name.”

No response comes for a moment, but then: “Oh, shit, I’m nodding. I forgot you can’t see me. Yeah, sure, if you’re okay with that.”

“It’s, uhm…” He took a deep breath. “It’s Peter. Peter Parker.”

Another short silence.

“Wade?”

“Alright, Pete. It’s nice to meet you. Try not to throw up when you see my face.”

Peter’s protests were cut off by the metallic _shink!_ of the curtain being drawn back in Wade’s dressing area. Peter cautiously stepped out of his and held his breath as he turned to look at the man.

They both took each other in simultaneously. Wade’s skin was mottled and warped, like a half-melted candle or the rubber of a balloon after it had been stretched past its limit. The man had no eyebrows or eyelashes, and even though the hood of the hoodie was pulled up, Peter was fairly certain he had no hair on his head, either.

He felt a strangled grip on his heart – who had done this to Wade? Who would do this? What kind of fucked-up monster would hurt another human like this? Is this the torture he’d been talking about?

“Oh, God, Wade,” was all he managed to say.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Wade said, but it lacked all the bravado that his previous flirty statements had held; this one was full of sadness. He started to head back into the dressing area, muttering “fucking _monster_ ugly as shit what was I _thinking_.”

Peter caught his arm before he could retreat, and Wade’s head whipped around at the contact.

“You’re not ugly,” Peter said quietly, firmly staring into Wade’s eyes – which were _so blue_ , holy shit. “And you’re not a monster.”

The look in Wade’s eyes was totally undefended, and in this short period of time Peter felt them hurtling toward something neither of them could return from.

“You’re not a monster,” he repeated.

They were quiet for a few moments, but then Wade laughed and reached to grab his suit hanging up on a hook.

“Well, _you_ are,” he said, smirking. “Awful to look at, just awful.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter replied, at once sad that the moment was over and relieved that he wouldn’t feel so naked anymore. “I’m the prettiest girl at the dance.”

Snorting, Wade offered Peter his arm like he was Mr. fucking Darcy and Peter was Lizzie Bennet.

“Shall we?” the man asked.

Peter took it. “Let’s shall.”

They paid for their clothes, and on their way back to the Met, Deadpool threw his suit in a trashcan.

“Do you not, like, want that?” Peter asked, looking over his shoulder at the can as they passed it.

“Eh. I’ll make another one.”

He _made_ his suit? Peter looked at the man in admiration. Wade Wilson really was nothing like anyone else thought he was.

They entered the Met and went to buy tickets. Peter had a hard time keeping his laughter in when the volunteer ticket seller tried to explain to Wade that it was pay what you can, you don’t _have_ to give an entire stack of cash, _really_ , but the man wasn’t hearing any of it.

“The arts are essential to a well-rounded education!” Wade called as Peter dragged him away. “Our society couldn’t function without them!”

 “Not even _in_ the museum yet and we’re already drawing too much attention to ourselves,” Peter muttered as they ascended the stairs.

“Can’t take me anywhere,” the man agreed.

Peter had always loved the Met – even, he thought sheepishly, more than the MOMA, which he knew was a controversial opinion for someone his age. Not that the MOMA was bad, by any means, but if he were given the chance to look at modern or classic art, he’d choose classic every time. There was something about being transported to a time where everyone he knew hadn’t yet been born, where society was totally different – he loved letting his imagination run wild about what he might have been doing then.

While they were in a Victorian furniture exhibition, he leaned over and muttered, “My suit has stealth mode. It basically makes me invisible.”

Wade turned his head slightly and replied, “And I… I have a hoodie.”

Peter almost choked. Normally he would’ve been embarrassed as other museum-goers glanced sidelong at him as Wade pat him on the back, but so far this had been the most fun he’d had in ages, and he refused to feel ashamed about that.

“But, like, for real,” Wade said conspiratorially as they moved to another room. “Can you carry me on your back and web to a corner of the ceiling? We can do that while the museum is closing down and then stay in the bathroom.”

Peter had the sneaking suspicion that Wade had been wanting to do this for a while. His planning and enthusiasm was pretty contagious, and was also one of the more adorable things Peter had ever seen.

“You’re the mastermind,” Peter said, shrugging.

“Damn straight.”

 They walked the halls, riffing on the art, and Peter felt… normal. Like he was just at a museum with a friend on a Friday night.

They reached a sculpture exhibit and Wade stood in front of a statue of a man, hip cocked with his hand holding a clump of grapes by his side.

“Bacchus,” Peter said, reading its plaque.

“Can you believe some people look at this and think the artist is straight?” Wade asked, shaking his head slightly. “Ain’t no way someone put this much detail into a statue of a man without thinking _long and hard_ about his physiology.”

“Oh, come on,” a man nearby muttered, shooting Wade a dirty look.

Both of the heroes turned to look at the man at the same time, and Peter could feel the man beside him tense. He realized with immense relief that Wade didn’t have any weapons on him – otherwise this would almost certainly end in bloodshed.

“Newsflash, asshole,” Wade said in a cheerful tone that directly contrasted with his body language. “Half the artists in this place aren’t straight. You might wanna try _not_ being a homophobic dickbag in a fucking museum in one of the gayest cities in this country.”

Peter found himself glaring as the man muttered something and moved out of the room.

“’s what I fuckin’ thought,” Wade said, turning to smile at Peter. “Not about to have my sexuality undermined by some tool who probably thinks Achilles and Patroclus were just _cousins_.”

“Your sexuality?” Peter asked before he could stop himself, but Deadpool didn’t seem bothered.

“I’m pansexual,” he explained, turning to face him. “Gender doesn’t matter to me.” Peter nodded seriously – he wanted Wade to know he didn’t take coming out lightly, and he appreciated the fact that Wade felt comfortable enough to share it.

“The only thing that matters is whether or not you have a nice ass.”

The spell broken, Peter rolled his eyes and turned to look at more art. “We were having a _nice_ conversation, Wade,” he flatly, but there was no heat behind it.

“Attention, guests.” A voice came booming from the intercom. “The museum will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please make all your final purchases in the gift shop and exit through the front door. Have a pleasant night.”

Peter turned to glance at Wade. During one of their covert conversations while walking the halls, they had decided to start their rendezvous at one of the closed exhibits on the second floor while the bathrooms were being cleaned (Wade had done a _lot_ of seemingly casual research about the Met’s schedule beforehand, Peter found). They broke away from the group of people in the room and headed, hopefully surreptitiously, toward the elevator.

“Remember,” Wade muttered. “We go into that exhibit. You go in stealth mode. I get on your back. We wait on the ceiling. When Karen tells us the coast is clear, we escape to a bathroom and set up shop.”

“Got it.”

“You know, I’ve gone on tons of secret missions and killed tons of people–”

“Didn’t really need to include that part, but okay.”

“—and this is one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The elevator dinged and they exited with, Peter thought, what had to look like a pretty badass amount of purpose.

They found a bathroom and Peter changed into his suit. He let out a small sigh of relief – he felt much safer behind the mask, especially in situations where he could potentially be _arrested_.

“Hey, Karen, missed you.”

_Hi, Peter. I missed you too._

“Can you turn on stealth mode?”

_Of course._

“And, uh, could you map out the museum and tell us whenever anyone is coming nearby?”

A pause.

_Are you robbing a museum, Peter?_

“No!”

Wade poked his head out of a stall. “What’s she saying?”

“She wants to know if we’re robbing the museum, and I’m letting her know that we _definitely are not_.”

“Just tell her we’re having a super illegal sleepover!”

“I mean, not _technically_ illegal, I don’t think,” Peter clarified quickly. “Just, uh… not strictly… chill.”

“It’s not chill that they don’t let people sleep here normally!”

 _Scanning the museum,_ Karen cut in, in what could potentially be construed as an amused tone. _There is only one person at the south end of this hallway – where you are –  and two patrolling throughout the floor._

Peter relayed this information to Wade just as the announcement sounded over the intercom that the museum was officially closed.

“Alright,” Wade said, leaning against the wall. “Let’s do this shit.”

They quietly opened the door and bolted across the hall and through a plastic sheet barricading the closed exhibit off. Luckily, there were no statues or displays for them to potentially knock over – just paintings hanging on the walls. Crouching down, Peter waved for Wade to jump on his back. When he did, Peter aimed for a dark corner of the ceiling with what he hoped was the least security coverage.

He quickly webbed a small pouch off of the wall that he and Wade could sit in (rather uncomfortably, but still sitting.) Peter didn’t think it would hold for very long, but if everything went smoothly, they’d be moving to the bathroom soon.

“So, now that I’ve got you here,” Wade whispered, “I have spent the last few hours coming up with a bulleted list on why _Family Matters_ is better than _The Wonder Years_.”

“I swear to _God_ I will drop us,” Peter replied, but he couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.

It seemed as if they hadn’t drawn any attention to themselves, but Peter didn’t like

“Karen, switch to thermography,” Peter mumbled.

 _Switching to thermography vision_.

His vision shifted to bright blues and greens as well as the bright red of the infrared security measures. He couldn’t see through walls (damn the limitations of science, he thought ruefully), but he _could_ see if anyone crossed the entryway, and he’d definitely see it if they entered the room. It seemed like they were good for now.

“So. Uh,” he started. “Wanna play six degrees of Kevin Bacon?”

He heard a soft gasp from the man next to him. “Oh, Spidey. You have _no idea_ what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Viola Davis to Dan Stevens,” was all Peter said, and they were off to the races.

They played five more rounds before deciding it was time to relocate. Peter lowered them down slowly and kept Wade on his back, hopping and weaving through the lasers, Wade silently cheering in his ear.

They stopped short of the entrance, and after checking with Karen, sprinted back to the bathroom.

Taking his mask off, Peter couldn’t help but let out a relieved laugh as they closed the door. “Holy shit, I can’t believe we did it. Well, I mean, we haven’t technically _done_ it yet, seeing as the night’s not over, but. Wow.”

Wade was grinning, his bright blue eyes crinkled, and Peter felt a jolt travel up his spine at the sight. The man was… beautiful.

Peter coughed to hide the fact that he was staring.

 “Glad you’re havin’ a good time, Webs,” Wade said affectionately, heading toward the biggest stall at the end of the row. “God knows you deserve it.”

The warmth Peter was feeling only spread at these words, and he followed the man silently, determined not to examine these emotions too closely.

Wade sat on the floor in the stall, smiling up at Peter.

“You know, even though these have just been cleaned,” Peter said, moving to sit beside him, “I can’t emphasize how gross it is to just sit down on a public bathroom floor.”

“Your concern for your hygiene is as adorable as it is misguided,” Wade retorted. “When’s the last time you got sick? Probably around never years ago, right? Thank you, healing factor.”

Peter knew he was right, but he still crinkled his nose as he lowered himself down. “It’s the principle,” he said defiantly.

Wade made a noncommittal grunt that morphed into a yawn. Peter smiled a little and scooted slightly closer to the man, his heart pounding. “My shoulder is free sleeping real estate, just so you know,” he said – and when did he get so self-assured?

“Thanks,” Wade said, pulling up his hood and leaning it over to rest on Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s heart was beating so hard it could have lifted his ribs out of his chest – but he’d have time to examine that response later.

“Hey, Wade,” he said quietly. “I just, uhm. Thank you for getting me out tonight.”

“Ooooo-uuuuut toniiiiight,” Wade sang sleepily, and Peter rolled his eyes. “I wanna gooooo oooooo-uuuuut tonight.”

“I mean it,” Peter said, nudging him slightly. “I was… not in a great place, head-wise, and this has been really fun. Thank you.”

“’s what friends do,” Wade said, and Peter blinked before allowing himself a small smile as the man fell asleep.

They were friends.

Peter stayed up all night, playing Tetris on his suit display and keeping watch, but no one came in the bathroom. Wade stretched awake at 9:45, fifteen minutes before the museum opened. Looking over at Peter, he grinned.

“Well, all in all, not the weirdest situation I’ve found myself in after waking up,” he said.

“Me neither, sadly,” Peter laughed, stretching his limbs.

“Oh!” Wade said, suddenly urgent, reaching into his pocket. Pulling out his phone, he handed it to Peter. “I meant to do this last night. Put your number in there.”

Peter did so, keying in a little spider emoji after his name. “Here. Now your turn,” he said as he threw his phone to Wade.

Wade punched in his number and then tossed it back. Peter looked at the entry and laughed – the name was “Wade Wilson” followed by approximately 20 varying emojis, ranging from the knife to the taco to the twin ballerinas.

“This way we can, you know, hang out,” the mercenary said, and if Peter were trying to read into it, he’d have said the man sounded almost bashful.

But that was impossible.

Peter changed back into his H&M clothes and the two of them made sure there were no traces of them in the room. 10:00 rolled around, and after waiting a few minutes to make sure they weren’t literally the most suspicious-looking people in the world, they headed out and down the elevator, making an earnest attempt at casualness.

When they reached the entrance, Wade turned the Peter and grinned. “Well, Pete, it has been a _gas_. Wouldn’t rather have Basil’d this Frankweiler with anyone but you.”

Peter felt the same way, but thought last night had been enough overwrought emotion for the next week, so he just smiled and cuffed Wade’s shoulder.

“This was fun,” he said. “Gotta head to Stark Tower, but… see you later?”

Wade simply nodded, and Peter turned and headed down the street, waiting a few blocks before he started skipping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your lovely comments on chapter 1!! i'm not crazy about this chapter but WE SOLDIER ON. obviously i have never slept overnight at the met, and have VERY little knowledge of its security systems, but i assume that two sneaky motherfuckers like our boiz could probably pull one night over on them. don't @ me. 
> 
> and now, time for everyone's favorite segment: Things I Googled While Writing This Chapter  
> -"can thermography see through walls?" (no)  
> -metropolitan museum of art floor plan (and its exhibits, hours, etc.)  
> -H&M men's shirts
> 
> ANYWAY the moral is don't break into the met!! it's a lot harder than it looks if you don't have superpowers


End file.
